Page 50 of Nights Without Night
Between ordering drinks and food, the table is a beehive of conversation. I sit back and listen, watching their familial interactions and jokes. They catch each other up on civilian life. Doc talks about his recently-born baby and how he’s going to transfer to a military hospital based in the U.S. at the end of the next tour. He shows us pictures of the baby, who looks like a small fox, peering at the camera through narrowed eyes.
Muhafiz talks about his new girlfriend, breaking all military stereotypes by blushing as he speaks about her, to Ricky’s delight. Callie is asked about her mom, who is now out of the hospital after a gallbladder operation. We order food to share and Ricky and David argue over the pronunciation of the word ‘Worcestershire’. Ricky gesticulates wildly but stops himself short with a wince.
“Be careful, will you? You’ll undo all my good work,” Doc admonishes.
“What happened?” Isadoro says, and it’s clear they haven’t told him about this.
“Just a bit of shrapnel in the shoulder. May have miscalculated just a smidge on one of the demolitions.”
“It wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t stupid enough to insist on watching your own explosions,” David says, and it’s obvious this is an old argument with an undercurrent of real fear and frustration.
“But they’re so pretty!”
“If you want something pretty I’ll give you a picture of my face,” Callie says. “Don’t fucking do it again.”
Isadoro is silent throughout all of this, and Callie turns towards him, pointing a finger at his face. “And you. Don’t you dare do whatever it is you’re doing right now,” she barks. Isadoro startles slightly. I look around, taking in the other’s sudden seriousness, Doc’s cutting eyes.
“I’m not-”
“Yeah, you are, and I get it. We all get it. But you gotta trust us, even if that means letting us go a little. You were a great team leader, Dorado, but I’m just as good. Each of us has parts to play in life, and this one is over for you. I’m sorry if that hurts, but it’s gotta be this way. You gotta respect us enough to know that we were good with you, and we’re good without you, and that even if something happens I will have done everything you would have, and more. You got that?” Callie says.
Isadoro looks at her. There’s a complicated expression on his face. It’s one of those emotions that don’t have names, that are fragments put together, a mosaic of mourning, acceptance, fear, respect.
Slowly, he nods. I watch in silence, my heart rabbiting. I know this isn’t going to cut through all the ties still hooking Isadoro into his feelings of responsibility, but it might weaken them just enough to make a difference.
“Aw, Papi is having a hard time watching his kids grown up. Don’t worry, I’ll still hit you up for pocket money,” Ricky says, breaking the tension. Isadoro rolls his eyes, reaching over the table to punch his arm.
“And now you have other people to take care of,” Muhafiz says, pointing his chin at me.
“You mean to be overbearing of,” I joke, sticking my tongue out at Isadoro when he looks at me.
“How’s the degree going, by the way?” Doc asks me. My eyebrows raise a little in surprise.
“Oh. Good. Finished. I get my grades when we go back,” I say.
“We hear your pictures got chosen to be shown at an exhibition,” Muhafiz says. Now my eyebrows really lift up. I look at Isadoro, who must have told them.
“Oh, yeah. I’m actually really looking forward to that,” I say, and the conversation stays on me for a while. It’s not intrusive, but I’m stunned at how much they know about me. Sure, I’ve talked to them every once in a while, but the conversation had been composed of superficial banter. Now, they seem to be aware of everything, from old jobs to current projects.
“At least you’re not at that catering gig anymore,” David says.
“Fuck, that was the worst. At a Christmas shindig, one of the guests took a shit right in the middle of the bathroom floor. Like, not even behind a stall. Right in the middle. And the tickets were like $700 a pop! Who even pays that much for a ticket and then spends it on taking shits on public floors?” I whine.
“Rich people. They be like that,” Ricky says. “Dealing with other people’s shit is shit. Back when I was an officer I’d always get Wag Bag Duty. We’d have to stir the shit whilst it burnt…man, those were the dark days.”
“Oh my God. You never told me about that!” I say, turning to Isadoro.
“I didn’t have to do it much. The lippy ones who pissed the commanding officers off got that job,” he shrugs. Everybody looks at Ricky.
“Hey, I am adelight,” he says, pressing his lips loudly against the tips of his bunch-up fingers in a chef’s kiss. “All the Fobbits love me.”
“Didn’t you almost get kicked out of the schoolhouse?” Callie deadpans, referring to the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Centre and School, the primary training grounds for the Special Forces.
“That’s hearsay!” Ricky exclaims. Everybody looks at him. “Okay, okay, there might have been atiny—miniscule, really—incident with a pipe bursting in my vicinity.”
“Bursting or exploding?” David asks, clearly already having teased Ricky about this before.
“It might have allegedly exploded a little tiny bit,” Ricky admits. The group laughs, shaking their heads.
